


The Little Comforts (Life Throws at You)

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s01e03, F/M, Gen, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard approaches her from behind, which says a lot about the trust he puts in her abilities, and speaks volumes about his self-confidence. (Set post S01E03 Blood Ties)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Comforts (Life Throws at You)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Foxriverinmate for the speedy read-through.

Leonard approaches her from behind, outside of the bar their little trio — Mick’s inside, hopefully not burning anything — ended up at after the last respects were paid to Carter and before they move onto the next step of Rip’s plan.

Approaching her from behind, quiet and stealthy, says a lot about the trust he puts in her abilities — she can tell the difference between friends and foes even with her back turned — and speaks volumes about his self-confidence — but hey, if she can't, it’s fine, he'll manage to move fast enough to dodge at least her initial reaction.

Odds are he would not dodge her at all, no matter what, if her instincts told her to take him down, but the trust part is nice, especially given the crisis she’s going through.

“I wouldn't have pegged you as the star gazing kind,” he muses in a drawl of words.

Something warm and soft, with a faint scent of an expensive cologne he surely hasn’t bought, wraps around her shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Sara replies good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the gentleman kind”.

That’s not quite the truth. She trusts that he can be every bit of a gentleman, provided profit of one sort or another is involved. She’s using a wide definition of ‘profit’ here.

She snuggles into the parka. She can deal with the cold of the German night, no problem, but she’s trying to relearn how to enjoy and appreciate the little comforts life unexpectedly throws at you every now and then. As part of her coming back to life and, as Rip put it, her being-better process. So why not start with snuggling into Leonard’s trademark parka on a cold German night?

Surprisingly warm hands brush against her hips when he leans in and above her right shoulder to take a look at the front of her body. Ogling her breasts isn’t what interests him right now. It’s the leather jumpsuit that has his full attention. The White Canary’s suit Laurel had someone make for her before Sara left Star City and her century. His eyes scan all over it. She feels them gliding up and down, up and down, from its high collar to the round tip of the boots.

“I fail to see how this outfit is appropriate for combat in cold weather,” he says softly, almost to himself.

The fur of the parka hood is tickling her earlobes. She indulges in the contact.

“Any outfit is appropriate for combat in any weather as far as I’m concerned. And can you give me back the blade you just took from me?”

She adds the second sentence like an afterthought, her tone devoid of any reproach because she knows that you can’t ask a leopard to change its spots.

No tit for tat reply at this one. A beat, his head tipping to the side near her face, his chin almost in her hair.

“You felt something?” He hides his annoyance well under a veneer of nonchalance, but the feeling is definitely here.

“No, that’s the thing: I do not _feel_ the blade anymore.”

“You keep it in an interesting spot. Should I put it back where I found it?”

She chuckles. “You wish. Just give it back to me.” She extends her hand because he’s in no hurry to return her belongings to her and she doesn’t have all night. “You can’t have it. It was a present from my sister.”

With barely a sigh, he hands her the small yet deadly knife. He didn’t intend to keep it to begin with ‘cause you don’t steal from your teammates — most of the time, that is, not unless they have something really, really special and shiny — but the provenance of the blade would have been a deal-breaker anyway. He can’t deny anything to snarky baby sisters looking up to their elder sibling. She knows it; he knows she knows it.

“I was merely practicing,” he admits.

“I know.”

Her training makes her a good... scratch that: an exceptional practice target. Managing to steal from her, and keeping all of his fingers and limbs intact while doing so, means reaching yet another level of his peculiar art.

“That’s an original gift from one sister to another.”

“We’re all about useful and meaningful gifts, and you know, in our line of work and hobbies...”

He moves to her side and watches as she puts the blade back where it belongs. A crooked half-smile tugs at his lips, and his eyes follow her movements with blatant curiosity. Not because of the _interesting spot_ where she keeps the blade, but to learn and improve for the next time he practices on her.

“We should go back inside,” he points out when she’s done. “Mick’s probably two minutes away from picking a fight by now.”

He does not mean that they should go back inside to prevent Mick from picking said fight. Quite the contrary. She can see what he and his partner are doing here, helping in their unconventional way, providing her with an almost-safe outlet. It’s not exactly a sacrifice for them, but she appreciates the intent all the same. Another kind of little comfort thrown at her by life. She wonders briefly if — when and if they return to their own time — someone would have documented a series a bar brawls throughout history, involving two tall guys with odd guns and a blond woman in a leather jumpsuit.

She shrugs off his parka, lets him catch it and put it back on. She doesn’t even shiver as the chill of the night hits her bare arms and shoulders.

A fiery roar, followed with the unmistakable noise of shattered glass and broken wood, filters from the bar before he’s done slipping on his coat. Mick’s started the party, and it hasn’t even taken the two minutes Len just predicted. He glances at her with a ‘Told you so’ smirk and takes the time to adjust the hood on the nape of his neck.

A stool flies out of the window and lands at her feet.

Well. It escalated fast.

“Did Mick bring his gun with him?” she asks, slightly concerned.

Her question is answered with a resigned eye roll and intake of air.

“I asked him not to, but you never know.”

He opens the door for her and slightly bends at the waist in a mockingly gallant salutation, showing her the way with small a gesture of his hand.

“Ladies first, ma’am.”

She nods a thank you and dives in.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [Documenting Bar Brawls](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6074722)


End file.
